


Marriage of Convenience

by ShannonPhillips



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Warden's sacrifice, Alistair and Anora must negotiate the terms of their political marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marriage of Convenience

By the time the ceremony was over, Anora’s feet ached from standing, and her jaw from smiling. Alistair had not brought himself to smile much, but after the Grand Cleric pronounced them man and wife he had turned to face the crowd, taking her hand in his and lifting both in a gesture of benediction. It had provoked a deafening roar of cheers.

Since the Grey Warden’s funeral Alistair had not made many gestures, nor been seen in public much at all. Rumor, that sly mistress, had it that Alistair and the Warden had been lovers--and that he had broken it off between them after his engagement, out of faithfulness to his future wife. Anora, of course, was far too experienced in the ways of powerful men to put any stock in such a ridiculous rumor. But it showed how deep a hold the Theirin bastard had in the popular imagination, that such a story could spread, and be believed.

As the servants locked them in the bridal bedchambers, Anora kicked off her slippers and heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Well, that’s done with,” she said.

“Indeed,” Alistair said. She could not read much in his tone. She glanced back over her shoulder as she began to unpin her braids, but his face was as carefully guarded as his voice.

She sighed again, this time in weariness. “Let us be frank with each other,” she said. “You will have to spend the night in my chambers--tonight, and in nights to come--or there will be talk. But the bed is large. I will keep to my side if you will keep to yours.”

His brows drew together. “Ferelden--needs an heir,” he began. “I am a Grey Warden and it will be difficult--“

Anora cut him off. “It will not be difficult, it will be impossible. The healers have told me I am barren.”

His composure cracked then, and she saw the anger flaring in his eyes. “You might have told me this before the wedding.”

“Why?” she said cooly. “You are yourself a bastard, and you have taken the throne. When the time comes you can choose an heir of your liking, and proclaim him your own. It may even be true, though I trust you will do me the courtesy of informing me, should you decide to take a mistress. But the task before us now is to unite this fractured kingdom, and to prevent our enemies from taking advantage of our weakened state. You and I must work together _now_ , and leave the problems of the future to be solved another day.”

His jaw tightened. “A child of the Theirin and Mac Tir bloodlines would unite Ferelden like no other. I don’t care what the healers have told you. We should try. I have given up too muchfor this--”

“There is no point to it,” Anora said, knowing that her own anger was showing now in her face and voice. “I will not. Unless you are willing to force the issue.”

A deep, angry flush crept up from his neck to suffuse his face and ears. “I would _never_ \--if you even _think_ \--“

“So, then,” she said tartly, and turned her back on him, pulling the last of the pins from her hair and running her fingers through the loose strands.

There was no more said between them that night, or for many nights to come.

***

During daylight hours, they addressed each other with careful formality. It was “my king” when she spoke to him, and “my lady” when he replied. He annoyed her to no end by asking to see the books where records were kept of taxes and expenditures; but at least, when she walked him through the accounts, the questions he asked were not entirely stupid. Still, she was relieved when he informed her of his intention to travel to Amaranthine, to oversee the installation of the new Warden-Commander from Orlais. Military matters she was happy to cede to him, so long as he would quit meddling in the actual business of governance.

He was supposed to be gone a matter of days. His first letter arrived a week after his departure: _My dear Queen. Vigil’s Keep has been attacked and the new Warden-Commander slain. As the senior Warden in Ferelden I see no recourse but to hold the Keep personally until Weisshaupt sends us a new Commander. I should return to Denerim within the fortnight. Has Bann Ceorlic remitted his taxes? He is late sending them, and I mislike his motives._

Anora crumpled up the letter and threw it in the fire. Bann Ceorlic had always been one of her father’s staunchest allies. That grief was still fresh--that despite her best intentions, she had not been able to save her father’s life at the Landsmeet--and yet Alistair _would_ persist in indulging his petty jealousies. No doubt the harvest was bad in the Southern Bannorn, and Ceorlic too proud to ask for time. Alistair understood nothing of finance; it was true that the war effort had drained most of the ready gold in the royal coffers, but Anora had made some shrewd investments, and those would begin bearing fruit very soon. There was no need to harrass the good and loyal Bann Ceorlic.

In fact, and mostly to spite her lord husband, Anora composed a missive to Ceorlic and his family, inviting them for a visit to the royal palace. That would allow him to tell her of his troubles while saving face with the other banns. She suggested a date that would coincide with Alistair’s homecoming.

***

Two weeks came and passed with no message from the King. Bann Ceorlic arrived with a force of guardsmen, and without his family, begging fear of bandits on the road. Suspicion, Anora’s oldest and closest friend, uncoiled itself and raised its head when her chatelaine brought the word. It was perfectly true that the roads remained dangerous since the Blight, and Anora herself would not have traveled with less force than Ceorlic brought. Nontheless, when asked where the visitors should be housed, she hesitated.

“Bann Ceorlic is a friend, of course,” she told the chatelaine at last. “And yet we cannot allow a force so large to take lodging within the palace walls while the King is away. Tell Bann Ceorlic that our barracks have not yet been fully rebuilt, and that we will cover the cost of keeping his men at inns in the city while he is here. Come back to me when the arrangements have been made, and we shall discuss the menu for tonight’s feast.”

But the chatelaine never came back. And at the first ring of steel from the courtyard, Anora moved. “Guards!” she cried, flinging open the door to her study. “I fear treachery! To me!” She was irritated at how shrill her own voice sounded: more irritated still at how slowly the guardsmen moved to encircle her.

Then the whine of arrows, and the gurgle of men dying, drowned out any other sound.

She had almost reached the safety of the Tower when they cut down the last of her guard. “It’s the little bitch-queen herself,” one of them said as he caught her arm roughly. “Do we get to have some fun with her?”

“Not on your life,” said another, and this one she recognized: she lifted her chin and stood tall and straight as Ceorlic himself strode through his men. “She may have dishonored her father and betrayed the memory of a great man. But for _his_ sake, you’ll lay not a finger on her. She’ll go to the headsman’s block with dignity--if she’s got anything of Loghain in her.”

“The King will have you all hanged,” Anora said, with all the icy calm she could muster.

Ceorlic snorted. “Your bastard king is dead too,” he said. “Esmerelle is seeing to that as we speak.”

The floor of her stomach dropped at his words, but Anora let no sign of it show on her face. “You think your motley collection of rebellious banns can do what an archdemon could not?” she said, every word clipped and tight. “You are a fool.” She turned her head imperiously, sweeping her gaze over every man that stood behind Ceorlic, and was heartened to see that few of them could meet her eyes. “And you--all of you--this is treason, and when the King returns he will cut you down like dry stalks of wheat. You have one chance to survive and one chance only. Rally to me--“

Ceorlic pulled back his mailed arm and struck her, and Anora’s world exploded into black.

***

They kept her in the Tower for nine days. She kept count, knowing that it took only three for a message to be sent from Amaranthine. When after three days she had not been killed, she knew that Alistair must live.

Her circular room was very small, strewn with rotten straw, but it had window-slits on three sides, affording a good view of the castle yards. She saw it, when he came to retake the palace.

She’d told herself that he would come. Truth be told, she was desperate enough that she allowed herself to indulge, very briefly, in a childish rescue fantasy involving griffons. Certainly she expected a battalion of soldiers, a company of Grey Wardens.

He came all but alone. There were only three men behind him when he rode into the courtyard. “You idiot,” Anora cursed him, “you _fool_ \--“

Then she saw. Certainly it was only because he came so ill-defended that Ceorlic opened the gates: but once inside, arrows broke on his golden shield and waves of men died on his shining blade. One of the men behind him started shooting lightning from his hands, and another loosed arrow after arrow with pitiless speed. The third, a knight in blackened armor, marched relentlessly forward, unswayed by blows that should have felled any mortal man. Alistair himself, face hard with fury, was always at the front of them. He took the brunt of Ceorlic’s onslaught and shrugged it off like water.

 _Gray Wardens_ , Anora thought numbly. _So this is what Gray Wardens are. Even my father--_

She stopped the words before her mind could finish them, but still they crept around in the back of her thoughts:

_Even my father at his greatest was nothing like this._

Then Ceorlic’s guards threw open the door to her chamber. She pushed away from the window, smoothing her filthy skirts as best she could. They had not given her a change of clothing, or any water to bathe with.

“I--I’m sorry, your majesty,” one of the guards stammered. “But we have standing orders. If--if they get close.”

“Standing orders?” she asked. She knew perfectly well what he meant. But in her mind she could hear her father’s voice: _Just keep them talking. Say anything, but keep them talking._

“Orders to--well,” he broke off.

The other one drew his sword impatiently. “Orders to kill you, milady,” he said brusquely. “Kneel down, and I’ll make it quick.”

Anora turned her attention to the braver one. “You’ll kill me now?” she demanded. “When my lord husband--your king--is minutes from taking this chamber? And just what do you think will happen to you then?”

She had the satisfaction of seeing the weaker one waver, turning to look at his confederate: but the guard with the drawn sword did not lower it. “We’re dead in any case,” he said roughly. “ _You’ll_ never spare us, no matter what you say: there’s plenty of stories about you, and all of ‘em agree you hain’t got a bone of mercy in you. We might as well die as loyal men to our lord, than as curs begging for mercy that won’t come.”

Distressingly, the second guard seemed to find this little speech persuasive. He steadied his stance and put a hand on the hilt of his own weapon.

“If I am to die,” Anora said firmly, “I mean to do it as a queen. I’ll not die kneeling on filthy straw.” She kicked at with her slippered foot, exposing a bare patch of stone. “Let me fall on the stone of Ferelden or not at all.” She kicked again, moving a bit more of the straw.

“You’ll kneel _now_ ,” said the first guard, “or I’ll run you through where you stand. A beheading’s a much cleaner death, your majesty. I truly suggest you do as I say.”

The sounds of fighting were louder now, closer. “Did you see?” Anora said recklessly, randomly, reaching for anything to distract them for the final seconds she needed. “They brought griffons.”

“What?” breathed the softer one, his face lighting with amazement. Even the harder one swayed towards the nearest window-slit, arching his neck as if looking for a glimpse of snowy wings.

Then, behind him, the dazzle of golden armor. Anora tried to keep it from showing in her face, but the guard must have caught something, because he swung the sword. As it sank into her belly she heard Alistair cry out her name.

***

Voices, distant.

_…waking up…_

_…she hear me?_

Hazy light. Faces. “Father?” Anora asked weakly. She remembered now: she had fallen off her pony…

Alistair scowled down at her. “Hardly,” he said.

“Ah, no,” Anora breathed. “Not the pony.”

Alistair looked away, towards someone else Anora couldn’t see. “She’s talking nonsense. Is she delirious?”

“You’re the one who never made any sense,” Anora said indignantly, and sank back into oblivion.

***

Alistair’s mage had healed her, but it took several days under the attentions of the palace herbalists for Anora to regain her full strength. The first time she woke in her own bed, bathed and dressed in her own linen nightclothes, the sweetness of it made her want to weep.

An elven servant approached and ducked her head. “The king would like to know when you are well enough to speak with him, my lady.”

“Not yet,” Anora said firmly--but of course it could not be put off forever. On the third day she had the servants dress her in one of her most severe gowns, braided and pinned up her hair, and steeled herself for the anger of the King.

But he stood in the doorway, as if hesitant, his eyes almost soft as he looked at her. Anora folded her hands tightly together and launched into the speech she had prepared.

“My lord husband and king. I must tell you--“

“You could just call me Alistair,” he said. “Try it once. See how it feels.”

She drew a careful breath. “Alistair.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“I must tell you--I am sorry.”

The teasing light dropped from his eyes. “Sorry for what, exactly?”

“For not holding the palace in your absence, of course,” she said. “I invited Bann Ceorlic to discuss with him the issue of his taxes. I allowed his men past the gates. I trusted where I should not have, and I am afraid your men have paid the price. I will never forgive myself for the lapse, nor shall I allow it to happen again.”

He stepped inside the room and closed the heavy wooden door behind him, letting the iron latch drop down in place. Anora found herself twisting the fabric of her gown in her hands, and forced them to be still.

“You trusted someone and they betrayed you,” he said. “Story of your life, isn’t it?”

Her eyes narrowed before she could stop them. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said coldly.

“Yes, you do. Your husband, your father, your father’s friends--everyone betrays you eventually, don’t they? If you don’t do it first, that is.”

“You’re angry,” she said. “You have every right to be angry with me. Once more, I apologize.”

Alistair leaned back against the door. She couldn’t read him: his body language was strangely relaxed, given the conversation they were having. It made her supremely nervous. “I’m not angry,” he said. “I’m trying to understand you. You’re my _wife_ , after all.”

“Yes,” she said. “And you saved my life. Again, I suppose. I--I need to thank you for that.”

“I spoke to the healers,” he said. “While they were working on you. I asked them about what you had told me.”

And _then_ it all clicked into place. She stood, caught in his level gaze, casting about for recourse and finding none. Her shock and dismay must have been plain on her face.

“Why?” he said, gently enough. “And how? You were married to Cailan for years, and by all accounts, he loved you. How did you never--consummate the marriage?”

She was frozen. He only waited, watching her as the silence stretched out, until finally she cracked. “The--first night--,” she said haltingly, and found her throat had gone dry. “The first night, I was--afraid. I refused him. He was angry. He left me, and went to--he went to whores. Came back reeking of them and slept beside me in our bed. That soured things between us for some time.” She turned her head: it was easier to speak when she stared at the cobweb in the corner of the room. “By the time we learned to--to trust each other--he had a mistress who he loved. A string of them in fact. I was relieved, to be honest.”

“I was scared, too,” Alistair said. She still wasn’t looking at him, but his voice was soft. “My first time. And it was with someone I chose, someone who loved me. I can understand how difficult it must have been for you.”

“Can you?” she demanded, and made the mistake of turning her head back to him. He pushed away from the door, moving closer: much too close. Her heart pounded in her throat; she felt like a hunted deer.

“I can,” he said, lifting a hand to her chin. “Listen. I take my vows pretty seriously, you know. I was raised by the Chantry, and some of it actually stuck. I made a vow in front of the Grand Cleric and all of Ferelden to honor you and to protect you. I will do that, with my life’s blood if necessary. You can _trust_ me.”

She stood there, her face tilted up to his, her eyes narrowed in something like anger as she scanned his face for any reason to suspect that he lied. All she saw was the evidence of deep grief in the lines of his face, and loneliness in his eyes. She reacted to that, if only fractionally--a lift of her chin, a sway of her body--and then he was kissing her, hot and intense, one hand threading through her hair and the other wrapping around her waist.

She abandoned herself to it, but only for a moment. In the next instant she pulled away, and he let her go immediately.

“All I ask,” he said, his voice low and rough, “is that you give me a chance. Neither of us chose this, I know. But I think--if you let me--I can make it bearable for you, being with me.”

When she could speak without trembling, Anora said: “It’s possible that I have underestimated you, Alistair Theirin.”

“Let me hold you tonight,” he said. “Nothing more, I promise.”

And because she did not trust her voice, she only nodded her assent.

***

The first night, he wrapped his arms around her as they lay in bed together. Anora tried to lie still but she was gripped with fear and could not help trembling, for all that she inwardly cursed her weakness. It was much worse than when she had faced the men who meant to kill her. That the fear was baseless made no difference: she had never liked to be touched, and in the long years that she had managed to avoid submitting to the bestial act, it had taken on an ever-more-frightening aspect in her mind.

Alistair said nothing. He only stroked her hair and ran his broad hand down to the small of her back, slowly, gently, again and again. His face was distressingly similar to Cailan’s but his hands were nothing like the same: they were hard and calloused from the sword, careful and deliberate where they touched her. Cailan’s had been nimble and smooth, and much too quick to wander.

She was certain that she would lie awake all night, loathing the touch of his body against hers, but in fact she began to relax as it became clear that he truly wanted nothing more from her. She woke some time in the depths of the night to find she’d drifted off against him, although she had turned away in her sleep, so that his body now was pressed against her back. One of his arms was still wrapped around her waist. She considered trying to wriggle away, but he was warm, and there was something actually comforting in the weight of his sword-arm where it lay across her. He said he meant to protect her: and having seen him in battle, her own common-sense told her that there was no safer place in the world than close by this man’s side. She lay still, and sleep found her again quickly.

The second night, his lips brushed across her face as he stroked her hair and her back. He pressed small kisses against her hairline, her temple, her neck beneath the ear. She shivered where he touched her, but not with fear.

The third night, she kissed him back, and let her own hands wander across his hard, scarred body. He pushed the bedclothes aside and found places on her skin where she had only imagined the touch of another. He carressed her and kissed her until she felt like a tightened lute string, singing with desire.

“I do trust you,” she whispered in the darkness. “Alistair, my lord husband and king.”

“Good,” he breathed, and went on to show her how little there was to fear.

***

Anora hated pregnancy. She felt her own body was careening out of control: when the early sickness began to abate, it was replaced with a new clumsiness and and a distressing sense of always being close to tears. It did not help that Alistair persisted in _hovering_ like a broody hen.

“You used to travel,” she snapped at him. “Isn’t there a outbreak of dragons somewhere that you can go put down?”

“I’m not leaving you alone in Denerim,” he said. “Not in your delicate condition.” The smug bastard actually _smiled_ a little as he said it.

“Fine,” she said coolly, “you can help me think of names. I was thinking Loghain, for a boy.”

At least that wiped away the smile. “You’re planning to poison me, then?” he said. “Because that will not happen while I still draw breath.”

“Perhaps you would like to honor your fallen brother,” she said. “Cailius, maybe, or Cainan.”

He ignored that. “How do you like Duncan?”

“Simple, strong, direct,” she said. “I hate it. We’re both of common birth; our son will have difficulty enough persuading the Landsmeet to forget that fact without a name drawn from the ranks of the front-line soldiers. He needs a nobleman’s name.”

“Duncan was hardly an ordinary soldier,” Alistair said, his voice so dangerously even and calm that Anora decided it would be unwise to needle him further.

“Give me something with more syllables in it,” she said.

In the end they named him Aravis. Anora, who had little use for babies, handed the mewling thing off to a wet-nurse and would not have bothered herself much more with it, save that Alistair persisted in bringing him everywhere, even bouncing the baby on his knee during meetings of state. She had to admit, as he grew plumper and begain to smile and coo, that he was rather a winning child, with a shock of tawny hair and eyes bright and clear as a winter lake.

“I’ll teach him to ride, and to hunt, and to climb a tree,” Alistair said fondly.

“You’ll teach him to fight, I hope,” Anora said practically, “and I’ll teach him to how keep an account-book, and to comb through the language of treaties for clauses that could be dangerous.”

“And as for cooking and dancing,” Alistair said, “we’ll have to give him a sister, so he can pick those up from her.”

Whatever expression he saw on Anora’s face, it made him laugh so hard that the baby chortled too.

 


End file.
